The Butterfly Effect
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: A brief oneshot describing the musician, Roderich, as he succumbs to the final blow life would give him.


Pouring all his passion into each note, pouring his heart into each song, pouring his happiness into the performance, Roderich felt above it all. He pressed each smooth key, flinging the sound out into the still air in the theater. No one dared stir a muscle, hardly blink. His eyes were shut tight, he could feel each key beneath him as though they had been imprinted on his finger tips. His heart throbbed with the pulse of the music and he could fell a hard stone build up in his chest. Beads of perspiration dripped off his temple. When he finished, he sat trembling, staring at the piano, still buzzing with life. When the final note finally died in the air, the crowd rose to their feet and erupted into applause. He slowly turned to face them, his lips bent in a half-smile. An elderly woman in the front had tear stains down her cheeks.

Roderich bowed low, exiting the stage. His knees wobbled dangerously. He slumped against the small couch, trying to pull some sense of comfort into his veins. Eventually, a mist of cool loped over him. He raised a glass to his lips and wished the next player luck.

The player flashed a grin at him and shook his head slightly. His back stiffened and he beamed at the audience, poising perfectly at the piano and playing with swift movements.

Roderich pushed off the couch, heading home. He didn't wish to stay for the final few performances. His paycheck would come soon enough. As he pulled on his coat, he paused. Something had changed. Not a subtle color inversion, not a hitch in the player's music. But silence. Utter, damaging, complete silence. Roderich seized up, staring at the player. He could still see ropy muscles move beneath the suit, he was obviously still playing, but Roderich couldn't hear him.

Roderich tapped the wall. He could feel the small vibrations snaking up his arms, but no sound pushed through. A very faint, dull ringing came instead. It ceased and was replaced by the trickle of music, gaining speed into a wave, as though a dam had been broken. Roderich swallowed hard and wrapped a scarf above his neck. He could hear the player continue his sonata, a beautiful melody, done with a stiff air, however.

Snow crunched beneath Roderich's feet. His breath came in bluish plumes, rising upwards or coiling around his cheeks. Snow had fallen earlier, covering the cars parked around the parking lot with a thin blanket. Roderich stopped at a streetlight, where an orb of golden light cut into the night's darkness. He turned into his apartment building, digging for his key. He placed a hand against the cold wood, listening to the quiet coating the halls. It was beautiful, pure, cold as the frost outside. Roderich pushed his door open, greeted by a gush of stale air, smelling faintly of cologne and even more faintly of almonds. Roderich locked his door and ambled through the dark caused by an absence of electrical lighting. Fumbling through the kitchen, he found a plate of cold pasta and ate it, kicking off his shoes and feeling sleep drag down his eyes.

The quiet had trailed in after him, pierced by the ringing yet again. He began to deeply loathe it. With every push of hatred it grew louder, louder, louder, screaming, hollering, slicing the thin membrane of his sanity. Without quite knowing how, he ended up on the love seat, covering his ears and begging for the noise to stop. He succumbed to sleep, however, still mumbling his own language until the sound withered away into gentle breaths.

Within the sea of his dreams, he eventually floated into a memory.

An open, expansive room with high windows painting the walls light yellow from the morning spring sun.

"Play it again,"

"Did you not like it?"

"No, I loved it. I would like to hear it again."

"As you wish, sir."

So the little boy did. He was hardly nine years old and two of his fingers could fit a single key. Behind him, watching with a patient eye; was his teacher. The man was tall, dressed finely, and of fair complexion. He walked about the piano, running his fingers down the smooth wood. His small lips, pink and poised much like a woman's, twitched into a smile. He crossed his arms.

"Yes, yes, good Roderich…"

The boy looked up, smiling. His own face was deathly pale and his eyes were ridden with an omen of sickness. The boy hardly left his house. His teacher had to come over into the boy's piano room and teach.

His parents were afraid, of course, that the boy would be ensnared by a wild trap set pout by the mysterious outer world, poisoned with lecherous strangers.

"Now, play so…"

Roderich raised his eyebrows, "I'm sorry sir, could you repeat that?"

"Of course… Play son…"

Not wanting to sound rude or dumb, Roderich played the first sonata that came to mind. He pressed a key and paused, there was no sound. He pressed again, rapidly, desperately, trying to squeeze out some form of sound, be it music or damaging ruckus—

"Goodness, boy! Stop that nonsense, you'll damage the piano." His teacher placed his firm hand against Roderich, who stood straighter and apologized. He had heard the final attempt.

Roderich woke up, wiping the sleep from his eyes. Morning light drifted on him, tickling his frozen toes. He stretched and threw his feet off the bed. His teacher had passed away later that same year, leaving Roderich alone to find a path to musical greatness. As far as he was concerned, he had never found it. If he was lucky, maybe he found the wrong road. He figured he had somehow wound up in the forest in between.

Stirring his coffee, Roderich peered at the clock. He had roughly an hour before his practice began. He made little money off of his musical career. If he had done well enough the previous night, he might be in for a recommendation for someone of higher standing. The coffee was Colombian. His cousin appreciated good coffee and sent him packets every once in a while, to prove that he was still breathing and caring.

Roderich set the cup down, feeling tears well up in his eyes. The time had come, then. Even if he had convinced the dusty old men trying him for his talent, he wouldn't be able to go anyway.

He picked up his house phone, not having enough to pay for a cellular one, and dialed the only person he knew would pick up.

"What are you doing, Roderich, it's very early."

"I'm sorry," Roderich said in a hoarse whisper, "but it's happened."

"What has? Quit being vague."

"Ludwig, what did you say?"

"Quit—oh, is that what you meant…?"

"I'm going to guess that you understood my vague hint," he said in a disjointed voice, still understandable, "but I won't be able to hear your reply so just listen, now."

There was no reply.

"I know I shouldn't be calling you, but I need to tell someone, anyone. And you're the closest and most concerned. I'm not asking for money for an operation, I could still fish for something out of my mother's bank, but she shut it off after I proved to be such a failure. However, I wanted to say," his words slowed down, charred, harder to understand, "I'm not sad that I can't compose music, I'm sad that I can't listen to it anymore. Good bye, I hope you understand."

He clicked it off, wondering at his own intentions. He pressed his hands to his ears, knowing he may as well say farewell. He needed to quit his job, then. Despair groped at him and he told himself that he was never destined for any greatness, only perhaps in making a fool of himself. He felt worse and worse with every step. Wandering was a better idea, until he noticed something.

A small, purple object fluttered atop the garbage can. Roderich wandered over to it.

It was a small butterfly, with a wing torn off. He picked it up.

"I guess we're both disabled," he thought, holding it close as it batted its single wing in a lifeless attempt at flying away.

Roderich watched the life float out of it, tugged out of the body by torment and hunger. He let the poor creature's wings descend into his palms, hardly stirring, and turning stale. He half-expected it to turn to dust and float away. Roderich replaced the butterfly on a trash can and, while turning away, was filled with a very strange sense of hope, as though the butterfly had given its final drop of life and beauty to him. Roderich dismissed the idea, but delighted in the sudden, small freedom bubbling up within him.


End file.
